Testament
by Ms. Pagliacci
Summary: The Saints continue their mission, making new allies and encountering new and old forms of filth. Rating will most likely go up.
1. Author's Note

I'm assuming since you've opened this, you are a 'Saints' fan. Don't worry; this isn't a cruel joke, but only an especially long Author's Note. I'll be posting the first chapter immediately after I post this. (If you're someone who is just curious, by all means read the story, but I urge you to watch the movie, because it is awesome.) If you are going to read any of my Author's Notes, please make it this one:

First of all, I would like to thank you for taking your time to read this. Second of all –wonders never cease –I actually do not own The Boondock Saints; they are the creation of the genius of Troy Duffy. The only things that are mine are the work that went into writing the story and, of course my OC's.

Something that I've noticed about other Saints fanfics is that there is –for the most part –a certain formula that applies. It seems that the stories begin with the one or both of the brothers being injured when they meet a beautiful, if damaged, heroine. Though there is injury in my story, I do hope to deviate somewhat from that pattern.

Lastly, and most importantly, though I always try to incorporate humor in my stories, some material in this one will be fairly dark in context. I'd be willing to bet that there are people out there who would find some of the upcoming material offensive, so if you are sensitive to 'naughty' language, violence, and implications that may not, in the eyes of some, shed a positive light on religious authorities (Personally, I do believe, so I'm not trying to slander any faith here.) you may not want to continue with this. I would also like to say that none of the antagonists are patterned after any particular person; they are only characters I have constructed for the sake of this story. Through it all, please bear in mind that, like you, I take pride in my work, and would not put anything in a story –especially this one –if I did not, ultimately have a point.

If you decide to read on, enjoy. I'm currently attending college, so new chapters may not be added as often as I would like. I value your opinion as fellow 'Saints' fans, and as fellow authors, so please let me know what you think. If you have any questions, I will gladly answer them.

Thank You


	2. Timing

**A/N:** I hope you read the first 'chapter', but in any event, here is where the story begins. Forgive me if the beginning seems slow, I'm just trying to mention characters that will appear later. Trust me, it'll pick up; there'll be blood shed before the end of the chapter; I promise!

_The drinking dens are spilling out  
There's staggering in the square  
There's lads and lasses falling about  
And a crackling in the air  
Down around the dungeon doors  
The shelters in the queues  
Everybody's looking for  
Somebody's arms to fall into  
And it's what it is  
It's what it is now_

_-What it Is by Mark Knopfler_

Conner awoke to a newspaper being smacked against the bridge of his nose as though he were a pup that had misbehaved. He muttered an unintelligible curse at his brother and rolled over on the couch he had passed out on the night before. Undeterred, Murphy swatted him on the shoulder, harder this time.

"What the fu…" Conner began, looking up at his twin through bleary eyes.

"Time to get up," Murphy said with a simple shrug.

Bracing himself against the coffee table, Conner lifted himself from the couch, and walked to the restroom. Since they had left Boston, and joined forces with their father, they had been able to afford considerably nicer accommodations than what they were used to. They had gone home to Ireland for a while –a vacation of sorts -and then had taken up residence in Pennsylvania for the past five months and…_shit!_

"Murph?" he yelled down the hall as he rummaged through the medicine cabinet. "What's today's date?"

"The second?"

The fact that his brother's answer was in question form made Conner assume that Murphy found no significance in the date, or the one that had just passed, for that matter.

"Did you pay the rent yesterday?" Conner was fairly certain he knew the answer.

"No, I thought you did."

Conner stumbled out of the bathroom, looking at his brother who was re-reading the article, seemingly unconcerned by their new responsibility.

"Fuck, Murph! I told ye it was on the stand by the door!" His yelling made his head throb worse.

"Don' get yer panties in a twist for fuck's sake." Murphy said with defensiveness that was purely fraternal.

Unable to find any pills, and in need of nicotine, Conner stalked out of the bathroom and picked his wool coat up off the floor, and searched out his cigarettes and lighter, but then remembered the building's 'No-Smoking' policy. Instead, he tucked the Camel behind his ear, put his coat on, and walked to the door, giving the back of Murphy's head a good swat.

Throwing his feet up on the coffee table and knocking over a beer can, Murphy tried and –for once –failed to belch. Conner raised his eyebrows.

"Oohh…" He said with a devilish grin spreading across his face, "and what would Maeve think?"

The mention of the woman's name made Murphy freeze in place. His tongue stuck out part way, his eyes went a little wider and his arm slipped off of the armrest.

Conner and Murphy had met Maeve Collins on the day she quit her job. After quitting her job as an officer in the twenty-ninth precinct in New York she did the only logical thing: she went out and got shit-faced. She'd found no justice in her work, she'd said.

Though the two could instantly relate to the dark-haired ex-officer it was not long before she and Murphy were in fisticuffs. It started out as a belching match between two acquaintances but Conner could truly not remember what started the fight between Murphy and Maeve.

Bouncers dragged them into the street and shut the door; Conner followed with a Killian's Red in hand. Murphy could more than defend himself against three-hundred plus pound men in bar brawls, but Conner wondered if he'd need to intervene in this case; he didn't, though. The two stumbled, jabbed at each other and cursed without any regard for onlookers (some of whom even urged them on). All of this their father surely would have rebuked.

By the time they both slumped to the ground, exhausted, Murphy had a bloodied nose and a black right eye and Maeve had a split lip and a matching black eye. Conner threw his emptied beer bottle in a trash bin and strolled over to the two.

"Are ye children done?"

The two on the ground only looked at each other and then up at Conner. Maeve stood –not very gracefully –and announced that she was "tired of this bullshit" and that she was going home. Being fine young, Irish gentlemen, they offered to walk her home. She refused, they insisted; she refused again. She walked home; they followed. A few days later, they stopped by her apartment to make nice. As it turned out, she was marginally more polite when she was sober.

Presently, Murphy looked at him in much the same way he had in the alleyway: tired and that much more pissed off.

"I'll be back in a minute." Conner said, flashing a look of apology to his brother for the completely tasteless joke.

Grabbing the check that was pre-signed by their father under the false name, John Reilly, Conner went out the door into the well-lit hallway.

Murphy watched Conner exit the apartment and then returned his attention to the article he'd been reading before he'd decided to target Conner's nose.

**Pittsburgh Teen Missing**

Sixteen year-old Nicole Dennis has been missing since she was last seen on Wednesday the fifth, while leaving her volleyball practice. If you have any information…

Murphy read on feeling more and more disconcerted. It had been nearly forty-eight hours since the girl's disappearance and after that…Murphy couldn't escape the statistical truth that the girl would most likely never be seen again. In the picture, the blonde girl smiled, obviously without a clue that she would be abducted and…he didn't want to finish the thought. Maybe she ran away with a boyfriend and was in no real danger. He sighed. He could hope.

He turned his thoughts to Maeve. He hadn't seen her in months, and after his last visit to the Big Apple, he wondered if he ever would again. For her sake, part of him hoped he wouldn't.

She'd followed them on a kill one night. He, Conner and Da had killed four drug dealers, quickly and efficiently; Maeve had seen everything. Of course she confronted them, but instead of crying and asking "Why?" and "How could you?" her reaction was simple: "I want in."

Her request –or rather, demand –was instantly denied; first by Da then by Conner. Murphy could only shake his head.

_Not after Roc_, he thought; _not her_.

Seeing that their decision would not be altered, she glared at all three of them with her fierce emerald eyes and stormed off into the night. Murphy started after her, but was pulled back by his father and brother.

Conner thought about Murphy and his brother's not-quite-a-girlfriend. Murphy and Maeve hadn't spent much time together, but they were close nonetheless. He'd watched the two –with minimal jealousy --as they went from barroom rivals to…were they lovers? Conner didn't know for a fact, but he was fairly certain of it. What he did know was Murphy's temper was unpredictable for about a month. Murphy wasn't over the raven-haired brawler, Conner knew, but his brother had somehow found some peace in being apart from Maeve.

"Hi, Mr. Reilly," a voice said from the next door over.

Conner turned to see the neighbor boy, Kevin Sanders, dribbling a soccer ball in his direction."Hi." Conner said, giving a genuine smile.

"I've got a match today," the eight-year-old chirruped as he expertly passed the black and white checkered ball in Conner's direction.

Having played in some matches as a child (albeit the ones in Ireland were considerably more violent), Conner stopped it with his foot and passed it back.

"Wow," he said, ignoring his hang over, "I'll bet your starting." The boy nodded happily.

"My dad said he'll give me five bucks for every goal I get!"

Remembering that Kevin's parents were very health-conscious, Conner snatched the cigarette from behind his ear and slipped it into his front pocket.

"Cool, maybe then ye'll be able te get flowers for yer girl," Conner jested, knowing that eight-year-old girls were still cootie-positive as far as eight-year-old boys were concerned.

Shock crowded Kevin's features as he gave a disdainful "Nuh-uh!" and shook his head back and forth like a dog ridding itself of water.

A voice came from inside the boy's apartment and he yelled "Coming mom! Bye, Mr. Reilly!"

"Good luck," Conner called after him, but Kevin had already disappeared inside the door. _Mr. Reilly_, he thought with a slight grin. He'd never been called Mister _anything_ in his entire life.

Turning and continuing on his way to the neighboring building where their landlord lived.

Though the weather had been warm, that day was particularly cold. Ignoring the chill, he entered the building, and found his way to Janice Elmore's apartment. Though he was loathe to, he knocked on the door, fully expecting to be confronted with the shrill, middle-aged woman. They had never paid their rent late before, but Conner did not look forward to incurring any of Janice's wrath. (Nor did he want to incur any of his father's. Conner didn't know how many times his father had told them to be sure to pay the rent _on time_. Surely not all the blame could be laid at Conner's feet.)

After a moment, he knocked again, hoping he didn't seem impatient. The door opened and instead of seeing Janice Elmore, her teenaged daughter, Megan was there, pulling a pair of head phones from her ears.

"Hi, Conner," she said, instantly smiling at the young Irishman's presence.

"Hi, Megan," he said, keeping his voice low. He handed her the envelope containing the check, and said; "Here's the rent; I'm really sorry it's late. Murph…"

Megan through her hands up in front of her. "Don't even worry about it; I'll just tell my mom you gave it to me yesterday, but I forgot to hand it over." The girl's smile was nothing short of brilliant as she accepted the check.

Conner breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank ye," he said, grinning with his unfailing charm.

"No problem," Megan said. "See ya later."

Conner began walking back and began wondering why the life of running from place to place, the life he had gotten used to, had stopped. He wondered why their father had brought them to live in a relatively small town where, though they did keep to themselves, they would be more easily recognized if something went wrong. Now they conducted their business in the cities, lived among decent families, where there was no mob and where people seemed relatively untouched by…

_That's why_, he thought with sudden clarity. _Da wants us to know what we're protecting_.

As far as all of the other questions his father either ignored or refused to answer, that one was one of the ones he wanted to know the most. Right after 'Da, who are ye workin' for now?' The man who had gone by numerous pseudonyms refused to tell his own sons about his work. They knew it was work for which they were more than qualified, but yet their father refused to take them.

The older man had said that there were a few more things to be done in Boston, and had left them with several rules. Conner found that odd, as he and Murph could certainly care for themselves. They were not to –as their father told them –go out and get shit-faced. Nor were they to kill anybody until they _knew_ it was supposed to be done. And furthermore, when it was to be done, it was not to be done anywhere near the town they currently resided in.

"Ye'll know when the time comes," he'd said. They were also supposed to pay the rent on time.

During the week their father had been gone, they'd taken full advantage of the fact he'd said not to _go out _and get shit-faced. They kept the refrigerator stalked with beer so that languishing around the apartment would at least be bearable. That was the problem inherent in small towns; there was nothing to do.

Still stewing over the lack of information about his own father's current activities, Conner reached the front entrance of their apartment building, and found Murphy propped against a pillar, smoking a cigarette.

"Any problems?" Murphy asked with a grin.

"No, ye fuckwit." Conner groused as he took out his own lighter and the cigarette he had stashed in his coat pocket.

"So, how did you proposition Janice?" Murph wiggled his eyebrows smarmily as he blew smoke from his mouth.

Conner only chuckled. "I told 'er ye'd be over at nine with a bottle o' Chardonnay and some Cool Whip."

Murphy rolled his eyes and punched his twin's upper arm. As Conner was preparing a counterattack, the door swung open and one of their less-liked neighbors stepped out, carrying on a conversation via cell phone. They both regarded the balding, middle-aged man with the same glare of contempt.

It was not that Ralph Brandel had ever done anything to either of them. They had never exchanged more than five words. For whatever reason, he made their skin crawl. He turned the corner, but not before the brothers heard a portion of his conversation. "So you got the little bitch?"

Murphy immediately began to charge after Brandel after he rounded the corner, but he felt Conner pull him back by the collar of his coat. Conner looked at him with a deep understanding of what Murphy was feeling. Flicking his cigarette, Conner held an index finger up to his lips. Chewing his lower lip, Murphy nodded reluctantly, then flicked his own cigarette.

As Conner rounded the corner, appearing to only be taking a stroll, Murphy followed, straining his ears to hear what the ingrate was saying.

"No, no, wait 'til I get there for the uh…festivities to begin."

The lascivious tone in Brandel's voice at the word 'festivities' did not go unnoticed by his pursuers. Murphy now matched his brother's pace, glaring at Brandel's back.

"Yeah, you're still at the Pittsburgh house, right. Okay, I'll leave here at about…" Brandel spared a moment to glance at his watch, "…nine o'clock. So I'll be there at about ten." The bastard gave a chuckle that further fueled Murphy's ire. "She tied up?"

Murphy looked at Conner, pleading with him. Conner only stared straight ahead, looking both as though he himself were hurting and fully capable of murder at the same time; never breaking his stride. Murphy's ears did not permit him to hear the rest of the conversation. Anymore would have been too much for him to bear. After Brandel had turned another corner, Conner stopped and abruptly turned to head back to their own apartment.

_This is what Da meant_, Murphy thought, caught between rage and awe, _I know it's right, I can _feel_ it!_

"There's gas in the car, right?" Conner asked.

Murphy knew his brother was trying to keep his tone light, trying to keep him calm, or at least rational, although Murphy could see in Conner's eyes the same will, the same fury that he had.

"_Aye_," Murphy replied, his voice a ragged snarl.

Before they each packed two silenced Glock 22's and the necessary ammunition, they both kneeled, each holding his rosary. After each 'Hail, Mary,' and each 'Our Father,' their fingers found a new bead and began again. When there were no more beads, and they gave their respective 'Amen's', kissed the crosses, they blessed themselves, then stood, Conner and then Murphy.

_Boston_…

Elizabeth McCray walked with her keys held tightly between her knuckles like the claws of a wary animal. They were following her; she'd be kidding herself if she denied it.

The keys, her apartment key between her pinky and ring finger of her right hand, the key to her mother's house between her middle and ring fingers, and the longest key, her car key, were clutched between her index and middle finger. They dug into her flesh, an ever present reminder that the weapon in her waistband would be far more effective concerning her safety.

_Why do I even have it with me?_ She thought wildly, struggling not to look behind her. _Just another three blocks_, she assured herself, however unsuccessfully.

As she'd had nothing better to do after packing some of her belongings to spend a week or so at her mother's, she'd taken the _Smith & Wesson Model 629_ out to clean it. The gun had been a gift from her mother, who'd insisted she'd learn to use it. That was the year she moved out on her own, and it was a gift she'd readily accepted. She hadn't fired it in several years, and never at a live target. She hoped to keep it that way.

Just as she had finished reassembling and loading the gun (she didn't feel there was much point in owning a gun if it wasn't ready to be used when needed), the phone rang. Her friend Sarah had called wanting to know if she could borrow "that adorable skirt you bought last week."

Elizabeth had looked at the clock, noting that it was nearly midnight. She rolled her eyes, but gave no indication over the phone line that she was more than slightly vexed. The skirt her friend referred to was a tight, short, leather one that Sarah had insisted she buy. "You never buy anything girly," Sarah had said.

Knowing that Sarah's next line would be something to the effect: "No wonder you don't have a boyfriend," Elizabeth reluctantly agreed and threw the skirt in her closet the moment she got home.

"I'll be there in about twenty minutes," Elizabeth had told her. Apparently, Sarah's crush called her up, wanting to do some clubbing.

Sarah chirped a 'Thank you, I owe you big-time,' over the phone and hung up.

"You have no idea," Elizabeth muttered to an empty apartment after she set the phone back on its cradle. She knew that once she got to her friend's apartment, that she would be invited to go along as well. She didn't look forward to having to decline and give some lame excuse as to why she was putting her social life on hold yet again.

After she located the skirt, she ripped the tag off of it, in hopes that Sarah would not think she hadn't worn it. She glanced at the shining stainless steel of the .44 Magnum sitting on the kitchen table. Although she didn't have a permit to carry the weapon in public, she stuffed it in her waistband, thinking that Sarah would get a kick out of it. Or rather, Elizabeth would get a kick out of seeing Sarah blanch at the very sight of the gun. She threw her brown, suede jacket on over her black tank top (and weapon), and stepped into the bitter October air.

The five blocks to her friend's house passed by quickly and the delivery of the skirt had gone as expected, and Elizabeth successfully turned her friend's offer down and even avoided the temptation of pulling out the gun. She was walking on her way back home and then…

_Why did you take the back-alley way? Are you looking for trouble?_ She asked herself. _Are you really dumb enough to go out and get yourself raped and murdered?_ Then she thought: _Who'd want to?_

She quickened her pace, but despite that, they seemed to get closer. Finally one called out in an authoritative voice, "C'mon, honey, we just wanna talk."

Taking a sharp turn she walked a little further into a seemingly darker alleyway. She didn't kid herself into thinking she would loose them, but perhaps she would gain some advantage in the shadows.

Wedging her keys into her jean pocket, she snaked her arm behind herself and felt the reassuring rubber grip of her gun. Pulling it out, she flicked the safety off just as two men turned the corner into the alleyway.

They spent most of the drive in silence, Conner concentrating on the road and trying not to make it obvious they were following Brandel and Murphy staring out the window of the grey Buick. (Conner didn't even utter so much as an obscenity when another driver cut him off.)

They'd gotten the car from the same man they got their equipment from, a short, red-haired guy in his mid-thirties who knew nuthin' about nobody nohow; everything was untraceable. Though the fact that their father put trust in Simon Leary was enough for them, Conner and Murphy had taken an instant liking to him and had even gone out drinking with him on several occasions. Indeed, the arms-dealer was on their list (a short one) of friends.

Eventually, the car was maneuvering around city blocks, under the light of street lamps and then back to a more residential, obviously up-scale area. When Brandel's pulled into the driveway of a large, white Victorian, Conner hastily pulled into an alley as not to be noticed and killed the Buick's lights.

They pulled the vinyl bags from the trunk and began tracking toward the house. At about a quarter after ten, they began circling the house, looking in windows mapping out a strategy. Stooping at a basement window, they peered in to see about ten men sitting or around a card table, a few with cigars, some with beer and several with whine. They were all facing the opposite side of the window; whatever their focus was on, it was out of Conner's and Murphy's line of sight. There were probably more than they were seeing.

Lightly whopping Conner in the head, Murphy pointed at an angle to the left wall of the expansive game room. A door –their way in –was positioned opposite the men. Looking more intently at the men, the brothers saw that their job was going to be slightly more dangerous…slightly. Some of the men sported handguns beneath their blazers.

_Okay_, Conner thought, _no big deal_, and pulled his ski mask over his head.

Pushing ahead of his brother, Murphy reached for the doorknob to the basement, which was thankfully unlocked. In a painfully slow manner, he twisted the knob, holding his breath; when it would turn no more, he threw the door open, taking the men by surprise.

Before any of them could draw their guns or utter so much as a curse, Murphy, with both guns drawn, placed a bullets between the eyes of a tall, rangy man and another in the throat and heart of another low-life. Both slumped to the floor with expressions that suggested they hadn't even registered what had happened. Conner killed two of them himself; shooting one through a heart and another one in an eye.

The blood acted as a catalyst, making the gamblers react in a flurry of motion. Of the eight that had not been disposed of, six drew their guns, Brandel dove behind the mini bar, and a graying man –perhaps in his late sixties –shoved one of the gunmen toward a door and screamed, "Get the girl!" before he bolted up a flight of stairs.

The man he shouted an order at ducked and ran down the hallway. The muzzle of the gun in Murphy's left hand followed the fleeing degenerate, but all three of the shots fired missed. The brothers placed themselves strategically behind pillars, avoiding the barrage of bullets from their opposition. Bullets flew and blood sprayed.

Confident that Conner could dispatch the few that still had breath in their lungs, Murphy flew to where Brandel had disappeared behind the mini bar. The despicable thing cowered behind the counter, trembling, imploring the masked man to spare him. "Ye bastard," Murphy snarled before letting the remaining ten the bullets in one gun chew through Brandel's body. He watched with cold contentment as the body stopped moving.

In less than a minute, ten evil men lay dead, cut down by saints' bullets. Conner tracked cautiously up the stairs after the man who was obviously the boss while Murphy wasted no time in following the man who had disappeared down the hallway. He saw a door ajar and, with much self-restraint –gently pushed it open.

What he saw filled his heart with such rage that it broke.

Conner peered around the basement door, afraid that the man had gotten away. He and Murph could not afford to spend a great deal of time there since neighbors would have heard the gunfire. (He found that citizens became concerned at the most inopportune times.) Moving with as much caution as he could, he saw an open door and went for it. It was the garage door.

The graying man threw himself into the back of a black Jag. Conner wasted no time in putting a bullet in the driver's skull and then tearing the back door open. Throwing his arms in front of his face, the coward squeaked, "No, please, God, don't shoot me! Please don't shoot me!"

Conner did not oblige. He emptied the rest of the clip into the man's torso and one into his head. Blood spread quickly over the leather interior.

The man that had fled the game room worked laboriously, untying the knots of rope that bound a naked young woman –no older than sixteen –to the bed. Murphy froze in utter disbelief. The girl's short, blond hair was mussed, and her face was tear-stained; her mouth was gagged, and her eyes were heavily lidded. She didn't even struggle when the brute copped a feel.

Murphy's blue eyes went wide. He was momentarily sickened both physically and spiritually. The girl's head flopped toward him and her eyes pleaded with the masked man for help. Her gaze betrayed Murphy's presence and the wall of a man turned, and drew a gun.

Murphy raised his own gun and fired. Red spray exploded from the hand that had lately held the gun. He shrieked in pain and grasped his ruined hand with the one that was still intact, looking from it to Murphy and then back again. Murphy closed the small distance between them and slammed his right fist into the brute's jaw with a punch that was well-honed from so many bar brawls.

No sooner had he toppled than Murphy was on top of him. He punched him several more times –or perhaps it was a dozen times –then shoved the silencer of the Glock 22 as far into the man's mouth as it would go.

"Ye sick mother_fucker_!" Murphy screamed letting saliva fly into the face of the man he would shortly kill.

_Was he a rapist? Probably. A murderer? More than likely. A tax-evader? Sure_. Murphy didn't really care; he could feel the evil coming off of him as though it were a wave of heat. The thing in his grip began to retch as Murphy drove the gun farther back into his throat.

When he could no longer stand to hear the man's breathing and whimpering, he pulled the trigger and watched as the cream colored walls, in an instant, became drenched in crimson when the back of the head exploded. Holstering the Glock even though the silencer was still hot, Murphy turned his attention to the girl on the bed whose expression held an odd mixture of fear and relief.

Murphy unbound one hand as he whispered comforts to the girl, letting her know she would be alright. Her hand fell uselessly at her side. It was then that Murphy saw a vial and hypodermic needle resting on the nightstand and a whole new wave of disgust hit him.

He moved toward her other arm until a low, keening noise came from behind the girl's gag. Her brilliant, green eyes move toward the door again, and Murphy turned to see two figures, both with guns aimed at him. One cocked his weapon, but was shoved and scolded by the other.

"You idiot, you'll hit the girl!"

The distraction was all Murph needed. Drawing his gun, he hit one in the leg and then the chest, dropping him to the ground. The other drew and fired.

Slapping new clips into each Glock, as he went, Conner walked quickly back toward the basement wondering what had made the men they had just killed congregate here. It wouldn't have been the first time they had taken down a slew of miscreants during a poker match. The house was dead silent until a gunshot cracked from down in the basement with horrific clarity. He ran.

"_Murph!"_ Conner yelled desperately.

He sailed down the staircase, taking three and four stairs at a time, fear for his brother propelling him. He then wound down the passageway and did not stop when he saw a guard running in the same direction.

_Boston…_

Elizabeth's muscles tightened; she held her breath. They stepped closer and she did not move. She could see the smiles on their faces, they looked like jackals.

"What are you doing out so late?" The same one –presumably the leader of the two –asked.

"That's none of your damn business." She said in an acidic tone as she tightened the grip on her gun that was hidden behind her back.

They only stepped closer. The leader's grey eyes glinted and with his left hand he pulled the front of his jacket back to display a golden badge clipped to his shirt and a holstered gun.

"We're not going to rob you." he said, nodding toward the arm that was hidden behind her back. His voice was completely rational.

"Then what do you want?" she asked, baring her teeth in an attempt at a sarcastic sneer.

She looked at the other one. He was younger, blond; he shifted from foot to foot almost nervously with a shine of something in his eyes; something…sick. His gaze flicked over to the older man, almost as though he were asking permission for something. A revulsion crept into Elizabeth's veins and as the younger one leapt at her; she aimed her gun and pulled the trigger with a flawless, deadly motion.

His eyes bulged obscenely as splinters of tooth, bone and tissue flew backward in a gory mist. His body kicked then stiffened just before it dropped to the ground. Identification of the body would be a little more difficult now.

The crack of the Magnum and its recoil felt…right. Before she could turn her aim on the other man (Was he really a cop?), he was on her, delivering a swift punch to her solar plexus. The air rushed from her lungs and she could only watch helplessly as he slammed her forearm against the corner of a dumpster and the Magnum clattered uselessly on the pavement. (Unfortunately it didn't fire and take out one of the guy's kneecaps.)

"You little _bitch!_" he screeched wildly, pulling his own gun and leveling at her chest.

She struggled for breath but could not draw one, even as he brutally kicked her in the side.

"You're going to suffer!" He yowled in voice torn by rage and pain.

A gloved hand clamped itself in a vice grip around her throat. Now she struggled even harder, though her air passageways where entirely restricted. She kicked with her feet although she really could not hope to reach the man's groin. Her hand reached for the gun, but there was no hope there either.

Something dark swept into the mouth of the alleyway and seconds (or an eternity) later, her attacker's hands flew from her throat to his own. Blood spilled downward, splashing her clothes; she could feel the warmth of it.

Filling her lungs with precious air, she lifted herself shakily from the ground and watched with cold satisfaction as her would-be murderer flopped to the ground, gargling his own blood. An odd _Pfft!_ reached her ears and a gush of blood erupted from the dying man's skull.

It registered with her what the sound was and she retrieved her gun and turned on a man clothed entirely in black. Tall and broad, he stood there holstering his guns and then began walking in her direction.

Keeping her gun trained on him, she watched warily as crouched by one corpse, showing little interest in her. It was only then that she felt comfortable enough to flick the safety back on and tuck the gun into her waistband. The man began readjusting the corpse's position.

"Wait!" she said, snapping out of it and hunching down at her rescuer's side.

She swiftly removed the corpse's gloves and wedged them into one of her coat pockets. Could the police get evidence from the gloves? She didn't know.

"He touched me." she explained.

The older, darkly clad man nodded then studied her with steel-grey eyes.

"Are ye a' right?" he asked in voice that was still and equally powerful.

Was she? She filled her lungs with air again; an action that now seemed somewhat foreign and yet heavenly.

"Yeah," she said with a level of disbelief, continuing to inhale and exhale.

Then, not knowing what else to say and knowing that someone would have heard the gunfire and called the cops, she said "Thanks" and turned to walk –as calmly as she could –back to her apartment.

She took some twisting alleyways; a longer path, but there was less of a chance she'd be spotted by a potential witness.

No one could be found on the streets in the remaining three blocks; nobody save for the one following her.

The guard whirled around and fired his gun but Conner kept coming; shooting and killing the man that stood between him and his brother. Leaping over the felled body, Conner shoved through an open doorway.

It was not the bare teenaged girl he saw, nor the three bodies slumped on the floor but Murphy trying to pull himself up by a bedpost.

"Oh, fuck." Conner whispered and immediately went to his brother's side.

Murphy could walk…barely. He shuffled his feet and was bent at the waist with his arm covering the bullet wound, trying to stop the blood flow.

"The girl," he said, pulling backward almost imperceptibly.

"She's fine," Conner said, continuing to drag his brother. The girl looked him in the eye. Was it an expression of thanks or purely one of fear? At any rate, he doubted very highly that there was anyone left alive in that house that could threaten her.

"Ah! _Fuck! _That hurts!" Murphy groaned as he sucked in air through his clenched teeth but kept going.

The girl was fine; Murphy wasn't. His flesh was sheet-white and Conner could feel the warm, oily sensation of blood as it seeped through his own clothes. He muttered curses and encouragements; he was full of rage and compassion.

The trek to the car from the house seemed to last an eternity. As Conner climbed into the driver's seat and started the car, with his left hand on the wheel and his right hand over the bullet wound in Murphy's side. Sirens could be heard in the distance. An ambulance was out of the question; their survival and the survival of their cause relied now as always on their _constitution_.

"Hold on, Murph. Hold on." Conner begged.

**A/N:** Hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Feedback would be appreciated; let me know if you have any questions or comments (hopes, prayers or dreams).


	3. Mentality and Mortality

**A/N:** Um…writing this chapter made me a tad emotive at certain points but I've tried to alternate between light and dark. You get to see more of Elizabeth's personality and meet several new characters as well.

All the cries you're beginning to hear  
Trapped in your mind, and the sound is deafening  
Let me enlighten you  
This is the way I pray  
Living just isn't hard enough  
Burn me alive, inside  
Living my life's not hard enough  
Take everything away

-_Prayer_ by Disturbed

_Something I need to know_, Elizabeth repeated the man's words in her head as she stripped her clothes off in her bedroom and stuffed the bloodied garments into a trash bag followed, reluctantly, by the Magnum.

_Holy shit_, she thought; _I'm thinking like a criminal_.

And then; _Was it really a_ crime _per se?_

The only thing she kept was the silver necklace around her neck. The man's blood had soaked through to her skin, morbidly dappling her pale stomach.

She looked at herself in the full-length mirror that had long ago been shoved into a corner. Her neck was red and an ugly bruise had begun to manifest itself on her side. Scowling at it, she kneaded it gingerly with her fingers; it smarted. She didn't bruise easily, so this would be one for the scrapbook.

_I smoked a guy who was gonna do way worse to me, and Pops took care of the other one; what's to know?_

Grabbing a towel that she had left on her bed (probably several days ago); she headed for her bathroom to rid herself of the remaining evidence. The older man was sitting on her recliner patiently. Why had she let him in her apartment? He'd followed her and she supposed she did it to avoid any confrontation with neighbors. She wouldn't have said she trusted him, but she did not by any means feel threatened by him; maybe even protected; that was it; she felt protected.

"Help yourself to a drink or…something," she said pointing to her kitchenette as she walked by, not knowing if he would expect her to be hospitable; she'd never been the best hostess.

She shut the door to the bathroom and loosed her hair from the ponytail it was kept in and started the water, allowed it to heat up, then stepped in. The water dampened and darkened her brown hair that reached below her shoulder blades. She scrubbed with vanilla-scented soap and shampoo and watched with satisfaction as the blood swirled down the drain with the white suds.

She thought it was odd. She had read many novels in which someone killed someone and would afterwards shower until the hot water ran out. The author would make it very clear that even though the character scrubbed and scrubbed, they never felt clean. Stepping out of the shower after about ten minutes, she did feel clean, though.

_Shouldn't I feel some remorse?_ She wondered. _He was human and I took his life like it was nothing._

Even from an early age, she had never doubted that she had the capacity to kill; everybody could in the right situation, she knew, but she'd never expected to be able to do it with such ease. She just pulled the trigger. Nothing to it. Bang. Dead man.

_Well_, _that's what you get for laughing at all that stupid shit_, she told herself.

She really couldn't help her sense of humor. She'd laughed at a news report about a young woman who'd gotten hit in the head with a cinder block. It wasn't that Elizabeth didn't feel bad for her, but the words; "Hit in the head with a cinder block" struck her as funny. The few friends that were at her apartment only looked at her, pie-eyed. South Park and America's Funniest Home Videos were about the only shows she watched with any regularity. She needed regular doses of political incorrectness, nut-shots, trampoline accidents, piñata snafus and cats running into things.

The books she'd written and sold to a small publishing company were meant to be comedies. Her protagonist, Lee, was a woman whose boyfriend was an assassin. Inevitably, they get into life threatening and hilarious situations. She was surprised and thrilled when her books, what she titled 'The High Caliber' series found an audience that had her sense of humor.

"You're a horrible person," her conscience would sometimes hiss at her.

For her, watching news or any form television journalism was torture. Especially that show on Dateline; _To Catch a Predator_. She'd always said she'd wanted nothing more than to be waiting outside the home with an AK-47 just waiting for those pieces of scum to walk out the door. Her friends again would only look at her, but she could tell that they didn't disagree with her sentiments.

Then The Saints started in on the mob. Her friends, of course would not have seen the bigger picture, so she kept to herself her admiration for the three. Was this man one of them? The possibility delighted her.

She toweled her body dry and brushed her hair, though she didn't bother to dry it. Back in her room, she threw on jeans, a tee shirt, socks, bra, and a pair of shoes and tied a gold hooded sweater around her waist grudgingly. She rarely formed sentimental attachments to clothes that could be deemed stylish; but she would miss that suede jacket. She poked a finger through a hole in the front of the shirt. Unlike the shirts you could by at American Eagle or Abercrombie and Fitch, her well-fitting, black tee was truly vintage. The material was see-through in some places and that was fine. It was from home; it was safe; years ago it used to be her mother's; and now it was hers.

_Saints_, she thought. The word reverberated through her head like a pleasant buzz.

Stepping out of her room, she walked over to her couch and sat across from her rescuer and looked him in the eye and wasted no time asking about the man's saintly status.

"Are you a Saint?"

He looked at her thoughtfully.

"Aye," he said.

She didn't have to tell him how much she respected him and the other two for what they'd done; her expression said everything. She had so many questions she wanted to ask him. Who are the other two? Where did you go after you killed the mafia boss? How many have you killed? What started everything?

She didn't, though; she knew there were far more pressing matters at hand.

"What is it I need to know?"

_Boston, two days ago…_

The man who, on paper, was known as John Reilly could not help but smile at the name of the church he stepped into as he dipped his fingers in holy water and crossed himself. Boston Church of Saint Joseph; Saint Joseph, the patron saint of social justice. He walked over the brick floor of the church's anteroom quietly, searching for the man who had contacted him.

He walked into the empty sanctuary and sat himself in the last pew. He felt no need to kneel and pray; he just let his mind wander. The sons he had left behind more than two decades ago had grown into fine men, who could only have been raised by Annabelle MacManus. They could be wily and unrestrained, yes; but they were also intelligent, compassionate and dedicated. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering if one could thrive without the other. Would he lose his faith in the mission they were charged with? Would one continue to live after the other was gone? Would he, their father, be able to save them? He wondered.

A hand placed itself on his left shoulder. He didn't jump but only looked up to see a man in black priest's garb who was, perhaps, in his seventies or eighties. With wire-rimmed eyeglasses that had fallen down on his round nose, calm smile and wisps of white hair, The Duke could see how it would be easy for the congregation of St. Joseph's to call the man 'Father'.

"Let's walk," Father Mitchell Hanes suggested in a voice that was kind, welcoming.

The Saint stood and followed the elderly man outside into a small churchyard. Several Crimson King Maples stood with their deep red leaves rustling. Fallen leaves skittered across the paved walkway. Autumn was beautiful.

"I'm getting old," Father Hanes began in a strong, yet weary voice. "and I do not regret having devoted my life to the Lord's service; not at all."

The false John Reilly nodded as he attempted to keep his pace slow to match the priest's, at the same time wondering if the conversation was going where he thought it was.

"I give communion and God's word and I hear confessions. Now, it's mostly just young men and women having had impure thoughts and the occasional adultery and I give them absolution; but there is one man who has confessed to me sins that cannot continue; they must end one way or the other."

"Aye, Father." He said with an expression of disbelief that he tried, however unsuccessfully, to hide.

"I'm prepared to offer you thirty thousand dollars."

"From de Church?"

Father Hanes smiled in a manner that was very wry for a priest and gave a slight shrug of his narrow shoulders.

"I guess you could say the Lord always provides."

_Elizabeth's Apartment…_

Elizabeth sat, looking at her 'guest', unable to stop the smile on her face.

She didn't know this priest, but if he had the balls to hire a hit man… "I like this guy." She said.

The silver-haired man smiled, obviously surprised by her reaction.

"Ye do?" he asked, stroking his beard with his hand.

"Yeah," she said, sitting back in her seat, "As wrong as that may seem."

His smile only broadened.

"No, not wrong, dear. De men we killed tonight were evil, and that priest is one who is not too embroiled in religious politics te see that it had te be stopped."

"Just out of curiosity, what would he have done to me?" She was unsure if she wanted to know, but the question flew, unbidden from her mouth.

"I don' know, but from de look o' tings, I'd say y'er fortunate I caught up witcha when I did."

She mulled that over in her head. It had occurred to her that the assassin may have been stalking them and had simply watched with morbid curiosity as the sick duo toyed with her, but as soon as the thought entered her mind, she'd dismissed it, knowing somehow, beyond all doubt, that it would be against the man's character.

There was silence in the apartment for a while. Some of Elizabeth's hair was drying and it fell into her face. She shoved it back behind her small, pierced ears. (She wasn't wearing any earrings that night, though if she were they would have been silver as well to match her necklace.)

"I'm going to leave for my mom's house in Pennsylvania. I was going to any way and my friends know. By the time anyone made any connections to you or me, which I think is highly unlikely, we'd be long gone. I'm already packed." She was rambling but she was sure there was some sort of logistical approach to avoiding the law in her words. Had she just suggested that he travel with her to her mother's house? She didn't even want to think about what or even _if _she would tell her mother.

The older man stood.

"When de we leave?" he asked.

OoO

_Pittsburgh…_

The blood flow was not even a tickle now, but it was no less painful. Though he tried, Murphy couldn't help the occasional agonized moan that escaped him. He clutched his crucifix tighter thanking God for the pain; that was what was keeping him awake and alive.

"_Agh…_" his whole body felt hot, slick with blood and sweat.

"Y'er gonna be fine, Murph," Conner assured him as he applied more pressure to the wound. Even in the darkness of the alleyway, Murphy could see the hurt in his twin's eyes.

"Y'er gonna be fine." Conner repeated, obviously trying to reassure himself as well.

Murphy nodded for his brother's benefit and prayed harder, asking God to watch over Conner if He saw fit to take him from this world, that Conner would have the strength to continue with His work; to see it through to the end, whatever end that may be.

"Amen," Murphy whispered.

Conner's head whipped from the bullet hole in Murphy's flesh to his brother's pained eyes, knowing, somehow what he was doing.

"Murph, y'er gonna be a' right." Conner said in a voice that forbade argument.

_Elsewhere…_

Nora had only been driving for about a half hour. She drove when she couldn't sleep; she drove when she was stressed, when she was worried about her grown daughter; late night rides were becoming more and more frequent. Despite the mileage on her Lincoln Town Car, it ran faithfully on the roads she chose to drive down. She'd cancelled all of her Friday classes –much to the relief of her students, she imagined. It was her time to think about everything and nothing.

She adjusted her glasses and looked into the rear view mirror at her reflection. A tired woman, whose sixty-two years were beginning to become more pronounced, stared back at her. She decided that after two husbands and two children and what one of her jobs sometimes entailed, it could be a lot worse. Beethoven's Fifth was playing lightly in the background as she turned into another Pittsburgh alleyway.

OoO

"Conner," Murphy managed, seemingly dizzied by the effort to speak. "The girl…"

"She's fine," Conner said quietly, going over every possibility for help in his head, wondering how Murphy could still be thinking of her at that time, hoping that he wasn't becoming delirious on top of everything else.

"She…" Murphy feebly reached into a coat pocket and pulled out the blood-stained news article that he had been reading earlier and let it drop on to his lap.

Conner looked at the picture and the article's title. It was –undeniably –the girl they had just saved and Conner knew Murphy's meaning was more than 'gee, what a coincidence.' What Murphy was saying without the use of words was "This was meant to happen. Have faith."

Murphy's chest hitched as he coughed. Conner was afraid to look for fear that there would be blood in his brother's mouth, but there was not. There was nothing more he could do for Murphy and he knew it. An executive decision needed to be made and it was made easier when Murphy coughed again and then gave a heart-wrenching keening of shear pain.

Conner started the car.

"What…ye doin'?"

"Gettin' ye help," Conner said, keeping his tone low, trying to remain calm.

"No…hospitals, Conner, ye just…fuckin' can't" Murphy said in a reasoning, if fatigued voice.

Before Conner could shift the Buick into gear, headlights form another car lit up the alley, freezing them in place.

OoO

The Lincoln's headlights swept over a car hidden halfway down the alleyway and Nora sensed immediately that something was wrong. She pulled her car parallel to the other and looked in the windows, knowing that she would be needed. Two scared little boys stared out at her.

She turned off her car and wedged her keys into the pocket of her tan slacks, then approached the car with her hands in the air, demonstrating that she would do them no harm. She pointed to the door handle, asking for admittance. One was obviously hurt badly, his flesh had taken on a blue grey hue; barely conscious; his head was lying back on the headrest. The other stared at her with wariness in his blue eyes, yet in the same eyes there was a pleading for help that she could not deny them.

The car turned off and the door creaked open.

She leaned in slightly, cautiously.

"My name's Nora," she said in her gentlest voice. "I can help you…"

"We can't go to a hospital."

"It's okay," she assured him. In the back of her mind, she recognized that he had an Irish accent. "I have a place about a half hour away where I can take you."

He nodded after a hesitation and leaned back, allowing her too look at the other, who lolled his head in her direction, the torment clear in his ghostly expression.

"What's his name?" she asked as she felt his forehead which was drenched with warm sweat. There was a pause.

"Murphy," he said finally, taking his hand slowly away from the wound. "He's shot."

"Okay, Murphy, I'm just going to take a look at the damage here," she said as she pulled up his tee shirt to expose flesh that was tacky with blood.

She saw that one of his hands was wrapped tightly around a rosary and the other was held by the one in the driver's seat. It was not a fully formed thought but that the two were siblings was apparent to her. Not able to immediately see the bullet hole, and not wanting to risk infection (not more so than was already being risked by letting it go untreated), she put the shirt back into place.

"What's your name?" she asked turning to the driver.

He glanced sideways then answered.

"Conner."

"Conner, there's nothing much I can do for him right here, so you're going to have to follow me. I need you to keep pressure on the wound and make sure he stays awake until we get there, okay?"

Her grey eyes held his gaze.

"Okay."

"Good."

She got in her car and immediately flipped open her cell phone, adrenaline and instinct now fueling her action.

A man picked up.

"Prepare the surgery; I have a GSW to the abdomen, male, late twenties, likely peritonitis. We're about a half an hour out."

"Got it," the accented voice on the other end said.

OoO

After turning the key in the ignition, Elizabeth instantly jabbed her finger into the 'Power' button of the radio of her Ford Taurus' radio as hard rock blared from the speakers.

"Sorry," she said to her passenger.

Putting the car into gear, she pulled away from the curb and looked at the glowing, green numbers on the radio clock; it read 12:24 am. The car was silent. It wasn't an awkward silence, but one that needed to be broken nonetheless.

"I'm Elizabeth, by the way."

The man didn't respond with his own name; he just nodded in his quiet way.

"That means 'God is my oath'," he said.

Sensing that she would not be able to pry his identity from him, she focused on his words and allowed herself to chuckle.

"'God's my _oath_'? I haven't been to church in…I couldn't tell you how long."

"Ye don' believe den?"

She shifted her position in the driver's seat and looked out the window, nibbling her lower lip, searching for words. She sighed.

"It's not that I don't believe, I mean I absolutely believe in the Father, Son and Holy Ghost; I just have a distrust of organized religion. In the end, it becomes all about politics, they don't want to hear about the hellfire and brimstone. Going to church every Sunday and hearing a nice, sugar-coated 'God-forgives-and-loves-all' message is just not what it should be about."

Another nod from her passenger. She found herself wondering when the last time she prayed was.

"You believe?"

"Aye," He answered without hesitation.

Silence again; this time she didn't disturb it. She stopped grudgingly at red lights and treated STOP signs as polite suggestions. When they reached the free way, the pressure her foot put on the accelerator, she found, was less than what it usually would have been if she hadn't just killed a man. As South Boston was put farther behind them, she began to relax.

OoO

A chill was beginning to replace the feverish heat that had overtaken his body. His head bobbed up and down; he just wanted to sleep. Someone was breathing unevenly, sharply. Another wave of pain.

"Murph, we're almost there; don' fall the fuck asleep!"

Murphy snapped his head upward. Conner's features were distorted. He was trying to keep his voice calm; but Murphy knew he was afraid. He wanted to tell him not to be.

They were on the outskirts of Pittsburgh now. Conner followed Nora's car up a steep hill on a road surrounded by trees for about a mile until she pulled into the driveway of a sprawling ranch house.

Conner wasted no time in getting out of the car and racing around to the passenger side and threw the door open and began to pull Murphy out, getting him to his feet, holding him up.

"Stay there; I'll be back in a second!" Nora shouted as she disappeared through a door in the side of the house.

Murphy slumped in Conner's grip, then tried fruitlessly to right himself. Each of Murphy's sharp, rapid breaths caught painfully in his throat.

A gurney was being wheeled toward them; it was pulled by Nora and was pushed by a tall, blond man. She reached to help with Murphy's weight; Murphy pulled away, but not before she felt his clammy, damp skin.

"What're ye doin'?" Conner asked his brother, bewildered by his actions.

Nora was not deterred; she reached for him and pulled his head upward, shining a pen light into his confused, dilated eyes.

"He's in shock."

OoO

"Should I feel bad?" Elizabeth asked eventually.

The Duke only looked at her as she stared out the car window and maneuvered the steering wheel.

"Because I don't; not even a little. I laugh at things I shouldn't, I've never cried at the end of a movie everyone said was _so_ sad, and sometimes I feel bad about not feeling bad, but I feel nothing for those men and I don't think I will."

He knew she didn't need comforted; the girl just needed to speak her thoughts aloud so that she could arrange them in a way she could at least try to understand. He wondered what Conner and Murphy were doing. Hopefully they decided on watching movies and getting drunk at the apartment and not on bar hopping as they'd been instructed not to do. Did something come up? Hopefully not.

"I write books about a girl whose boyfriend is an assassin. They're _comedies _for God's sake.

"I just killed a man tonight and I was more pissed about my suede jacket being ruined than the fact that I'd just ended someone's life. I guess I've always been kind of fucked in the head like that. And it's not like I've ever been through some traumatic experience that would make me be that way; I've just _always_ been like that."

He knew that despite her bleak self-analysis, she would probably get along very well with his sons.

"They were evil men, dear. De ye know what Genesis nine, verse six says?"

Much to her amazement, she did know; it was one of very few she remembered.

"Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed, for in His image, God mad He man." She answered, smiling slightly at the appropriateness of the Old Testament verse.

"I tought ye said ye didn't go te church."

"I used to until the old geezers ran off a truly awesome pastor who wasn't afraid to tell it like it is. I always liked that verse, though."

"Aye, myself as well," he said. Then after a pause; "I take it ye were Presbyterian."

"Oh, yeah. A 'Church run by old men.'"

The highway was peppered with semis and very few other cars, much to Elizabeth's contentment. She kept the Ford at a careful sixty five as they went. Sipping at her Mountain Dew, the temptation to ask about the business of the Saints was almost more than she could bear but instead, she asked a much less serious question.

"Do you like The Stones?"

He gave her a quizzical look.

"You know, Mick Jagger, Keith Richards?"

The same expression greeted her. She shook her head and grinned.

"Just put in the CD that's in the visor," she said.

OoO

Murphy cried out in agony as they lifted him onto the gurney. Conner cringed, wishing he could ease his brother's suffering. They began pulling him inside and Conner followed, trying to help.

The room they stopped in was cool; it's florescent lights gave the light blue-green surgery room an odd, almost aquatic cast.

"Okay," Nora said to the other man. "One, two, three, _lift!_"

Conner gripped Murphy's hand, willing him to be okay.

"What the hell happened?" the blond man asked in a thick, Russian accent.

Rationality had abandoned Conner's mind. Shoving the man viciously away from Murphy, he pulled a Glock from its holster and leveled it at the Russian's head.

"_Get the fuck back!" _

The Russian stepped back with his hands up, yet looking Conner in the eye. Conner cocked the gun and curled his finger around the trigger. His eyes blazed with seething ferocity.

"Conner!"

He didn't hear it.

"Don't touch my brother, or I will put a bullet in your fucking skull," he hissed, using Russian instead of English.

The man at gunpoint raised his eyebrows in surprise, but other than that, he did not move; didn't try to reason in one language or the other.

"Conner!"

Someone was calling his name.

He stepped toward the table, keeping the gun trained on its target and putting a comforting hand on Murphy's forehead.

"Y'er gonna be a' right." He promised again; his voice cracking.

"_CONNER!"_

He turned his head partially toward Nora, not letting the other out of his sight. She took a bold step toward him, her features questioning and surprised but not afraid.

"Conner, listen to me," she spoke slowly, carefully. "This is Kostya; I can't help Murphy without him. He's not going to hurt him; just please put the gun down."

Conner's chest heaved as he looked from Murphy to Kostya, to Nora and then back at Murphy.

"Just put it down, Conner," Nora said in a logical, coaxing, understanding voice, "just put it down."

Slowly, he re-holstered the Glock, his breathing slowed; his knees shook. Kostya edged by the incensed Irishman and he and Nora went to work. Murphy's vital statistics were shouted between the two, but they meant nothing to Conner.

"Four units of O-Negative," Nora ordered.

Conner could only look on helplessly as Murphy's gored flesh was exposed. A tube was shoved down his throat; fluid was shot into his veins and his body went slack. Somewhere monitors began bleeping erratically as the two 'doctors' moved with nearly inhuman speed to save the unconscious form on the table. Conner stood there, swaying, unable to keep hot tears from flowing down his bloodless face, his blue eyes wide and unblinking.

A long, piercing, electronic whine stabbed through the room.

"We're loosing him," the Russian announced.

Nora readied the defibrillator. She rubbed the paddles together in a brisk motion.

"One, two, three, CLEAR!"

Murphy's body spasmed upward in a horrible, involuntary motion until gravity reclaimed it. Then they compressed his chest, but it looked to Conner as though they were crushing the life from him.

That pattern continued for about five minutes until the bleeps began again.

"I've got a pulse."

But as the time between the monitors' beeps became longer, Conner's heart sank lower until the weight of it drove him to his knees.

Again the pitch, signaling mortality, began again.

He was powerless to help his twin brother. Conner was not aware of himself there on the floor, trembling. As his brother's heart was failing, he was certain his was too. A low cry of anguish joined the machines' shrill wail.

**A/N:** Okay, if I've done my job, you should be on the edge of your seat right about now. I hope the transitions in POV could be read smoothly. Let me know how I did or if you have any questions. Thanks for readin'!


	4. Everything and Nothing

**A/N:** Firstly, I would like to thank ArwenGreenEyes, smittyroo, IrishSaints and L.R. Meriadoc for their reviews! This chapter's shorter, but I'm happy with it; hope you will be too.

Life and death are balanced on the edge of a razor.

Homer, _Iliad_

"Stopping compressions," Conner heard Nora's word's but did not; no, _could not _believe them.

His body moved itself from the floor, shoving them out of his way as the flat line continued to drone.

"_No, no, no, no, no."_ He cried, shaking Murphy's shoulders, trying to revive him. "Please no!"

Losing his brother would not be bearable. He knew they were only mortal men; that a bullet could –and most likely would –end their lives, but they had not strayed from the mission. Were they not supposed to have the protection of all the angels in heaven? He would give anything to exchange places with Murphy; he would sacrifice himself without a second's hesitation. Conner knew it was his fault. If he hadn't left Murphy's side, this wouldn't have happened. And now he was…

He began bringing his fist down on Murphy's chest, wild with despair.

In the commotion, Nora had not taken into consideration what the reaction of one would be at the loss of the other. Conner slammed his fist down on the still body, in a faster and harder succession of desperate strikes. Recovering from being shoved, she and Kostya tried to pull the hysterical man away.

He was raving; and not just in one language. In an eerie train of tongues, Conner seemed to be pleading with someone or something to bring Murphy back.

OoO

Weightless. That's what he was. He was everywhere and nowhere; everything and nothing. And warm, safe; unlike anything he'd ever felt. No pain; was he breathing? He found that he didn't care. He wanted to laugh and cry but that wild trembling of his being only kept building and building.

And light! Light that he knew should be blinding him, but was not.

There were people there too. Some of them he was certain he'd known at one time; but why were they there with him?

There was a young woman there, whom he'd never seen. She was wearing a white, crinoline dress and matching white shoes. She had short, dark hair, framing a face that had an odd beauty to it, her dark eyes, unreadable.

_Kitty_, he somehow knew.

In the next instant she wasn't there, as though she had never been.

Then there was a man or at least the form of one. There was no discernable eye color or hair color, just the image of a man. He appeared to be sitting down, although Murphy could not have said on _what_. He smiled a weary smile with fathomless understanding and love and the sensation that Murphy had been feeling was amplified immeasurably.

Murphy didn't so much as _hear_ the words as he _felt _them. The words seemed to emanate from the man without him even having moved his mouth from the form of that tired smile.

_Go now._

OoO

As her training spurred her on, Nora tried to comfort and quiet him but he refused to leave the side of the operating table. Conner pulled his arms free of Kostya's grip and proceeded with his own crude form of resuscitation.

"Conner, come on; there's nothing you can…"

"_NO!"_

Adrenaline and raw emotion made the Irishman inconceivably strong as he struggled; there would clearly be no reasoning with him in his grief. As Nora let go to retrieve something from a cabinet, the sound quality of the room changed, although she could not identify just how at first. The harsh shriek of the flat line signal was no longer there. A rhythmic _beep…beep…beep_ overcame all other noise.

For a second, perhaps less, all three were still; she and Kostya exchanged looks of disbelief and then flew into action, trying to save what they thought they'd lost.

OoO

"Do ye mind?" The man who, in her mind, Elizabeth decided to call _Pops_ asked as he produced a cigar, clip and matches. She wondered what he would do with the match.

"Nah," she said, waving a hand in the air. "Go ahead."

He flicked the match out the window.

The scent of vanilla cigar filled the Ford and she was reminded of her editor, Frank Leonard. She'd instantly liked Frank. He was quick to smile and his tremendous girth, beard, and glasses made him very relatable to Ol' Saint Nick. He and his wife Sheila had her over to their house usually once a week for dinner. Elizabeth had been hesitant at first –she always was even around people she knew –but one taste of Sheila's Chicken Oscar and she was hooked.

Though the man next to her resembled Santa Claus in that he had a beard, his fierce silver eyes would not allow him to be confused as such. Smoke rolled from his nose as he exhaled and Mick Jagger sang on.

"_Oh help me, please doctor, I'm damaged  
There's a pain where there once was a heart  
It's sleepin, it's a beatin'  
Can't ya please tear it out, and preserve it  
Right there in that jar?"_

OoO

It took hours of exposing and then carefully repairing and cleansing the damaged, pink tissue and in that time, Nora would have found it difficult to imagine that Conner had stopped pacing; but Murphy was stable now, his wound now be able to heal properly, though the incision she had to make would doubtlessly leave an impressive scar. They'd finally been able to change him into a hospital gown and move him to a recovery bed on the opposite side of the room where he rested, so still and pale.

Nora looked at the clock on the wall and realized the sun would soon be rising on the outside world. She wanted to collapse, but knew there was something else that needed to be done before she e-mailed her students to tell them that class would be cancelled because of a…family emergency (_Yeah, that sounds about right_, she thought.) for at least the next several days and to do the assignments on the syllabus.

After washing her hands, she left the operating room and returned moments later with a chair and set it, backwards, next to the bed where Murphy slept. She took Conner by the crook of his arm, gaining his attention.

"Let's get you taken care of," she said in a quiet voice, as though she were afraid of waking Murphy.

He looked at her with fatigued, yet questioning blue eyes. He was ashen, clearly exhausted. She knew how drained she was but she could not begin to imagine how Conner must feel. He barely even reacted when she pulled back his coat, exposing an ugly wound in his shoulder.

"You're hurt," she said.

He craned his neck and winced as he felt the pain he had apparently either been ignoring or that he didn't realize he had. He looked back at her with a look that said 'Well, I'll be damned,' and then back at Murphy.

"He'll be fine now," she said with an unexpected confidence in her voice.

He nodded his understanding, albeit slowly, before he removed his coat and shoulder holsters, then sat with his chest against the backrest of the chair. She gathered what she'd need to repair Conner's wound and began wondering what would happen next.

Conner knew it was unlikely that women in their twilight years kept stocked emergency rooms in their homes. The only question was: Why did she help them? Those who more than likely employed her would frown on his and Murphy's activities and the fact that she was disloyal in her medical ministerings. She would know that.

As his head lolled downward, he chose not to dwell on it. They were, for however short a time, safe and were it not for her and Kostya his brother would not be alive. He felt so unbelievably weary; physically, emotionally, mentally. How much further would he go? To the death, he knew but he wondered how much longer that would be.

He could sense Nora behind him, but could not feel anything. _Drugs_, he guessed, though he felt an odd detachment from his body. His head was swimming and he could only sit there and go in mental circles for a time.

OoO

It was nearly seven in the morning –their trip was only about half-way over –which didn't bode well for Elizabeth, as she was not at all a morning person. The morning was grey now with the slightest hint of rosy light on the Eastern Horizon while the atmosphere's edges were blurred with fog. She wanted to mentally document this so that she could incorporate it in a later chapter of the newest book she was writing, but her drooping eyelids would not allow it.

She couldn't repress a yawn. Now, not even gallons of coffee could keep her conscious. The Ford began to coast to the road's shoulder when a sharp clearing of the throat returned her attention to the road.

"De ye want me te drive?"

She began to shake her head, but considered that after having avoided certain death at the hands of a pair of sickos that it would be a damned shame to wind up wrapped around a telephone pole. She was too tired to even laugh at the thought.

"That would probably be wise." She replied as she pulled into the parking lot of a small, road-side diner to switch sides and to show Pops on a road map the way to go.

It took her _maybe_ two minutes before the motion of the car over pavement put her to sleep, cuddled on the reclined passenger seat within the sweater she'd finally decided to wrap around herself, but before she did, she heard the _Stones_ CD begin again.

She smiled.

OoO

"Thank ye," he said in a voice that was barely audible.

Conner heard a metal-on-metal _clink_ and then felt a soft, almost unsure, pat on his good shoulder.

"You're welcome."

He remained slumped on the chair until Kostya returned, dragging the cot and extra pair of clothing Nora had instructed him to get.

"There's a shower in there," Nora said pointing to a door and handing him the clothes. "Go ahead and get yourself washed up, just don't get the stitches wet."

He looked reluctantly at Murphy, but a look from Nora told him that she would see to it that Murphy would be fine in his absence. The look also assured Conner that if he didn't take her suggestion, he would be dragged by an ear into the shower, injury or no.

After showering and redressing; feeling at least physically clean. He went back into what was now the recovery room and continued his vigil over Murphy.

Conner watched the Russian out of the corner of his eye with wariness that was probably misplaced, until Nora handed him an oblong yellow pill, several smaller, round, white ones and a Dixie cup filled with water.

"Painkillers," she explained.

He looked at them in his palm with a certain dubiousness. _Were they really painkillers?_ Even so, he wanted to feel the pain; needed to, in fact. As she looked him in the eye, the older woman seemed to sense what he was thinking.

"Look," she said, sighing heavily. "I've helped you two this far haven't I? Why would I poison you now? And unless you yourself pulled the trigger on him," she cocked a thumb toward Murph, "whatever happened _is not_ your fault, Conner."

_Who can argue that logic?_ Conner thought to himself sarcastically.

He couldn't stop himself from snorting in doubt, but his expression thanked her for her words nonetheless. Holding Nora's gaze, he threw the pills into his mouth and chased them with the water. Satisfied, Nora busied herself with something else.

"He's my twin brother." He said in a quiet voice, after a while.

In his periphery, he saw Nora cleaning and putting away equipment; she nodded as though she had expected as much. Kostya didn't pay him much mind, as he'd already been informed of this in a more volatile situation.

Before long, he found it necessary to support himself on the bedrail. Nora materialized beside him now and he was certain he was going to fall over.

"C'mon," she said, supporting some of his weight.

She led him over to the cot; he was too tired to protest.

OoO

Nora shut down her computer and then just sat at her desk; she removed her glasses and massaged her temples. For years, injured men had been dragged to and sometimes left at her doorstep to be treated; sometimes successfully, sometimes not, though she was always well-paid for her services; but this was different.

These two, these brothers, deeply cared for each other. Even if someone stayed to watch over the person who was injured, it never seemed that they cared if that person lived or died. Her throat tightened now. She knew that she'd been mending monsters for so long that the proper response to the loss of human life now seemed peculiar to her and for that she loathed herself.

There was a possibility that it would bring nothing but pain and suffering to her, but whatever Conner and Murphy were into, she would help them; _had_ to help them no matter what.

Really, it was likely her employers would not even find out; they were there so rarely. Helping Conner and Murphy just felt right; the kind of _right_ you couldn't explain and could only follow through with. They were now both sleeping. Nora hadn't wanted to give Conner a sleeping pill without telling him but she knew he would have refused it and that the only sleep he would get –if any –would be troubled and that it would greatly behoove him to get a decent rest.

She found herself missing her daughter. It had been a while since she'd visited. Because they were both horrible cooks, they would usually go out to eat and talk and drink. She'd found a great friend in her daughter. Going out with her fellow professors, while it could be entertaining, could also be draining because conversation always turned to politics or something intellectual. She was an intelligent woman, to say the least, but those sorts conversations usually became heated and taxing on her nerves.

Then, like she had so many times before, she wondered what her son would have turned out like.

_Thirty-Three years ago…_

The manner in which her husband and son were taken from her had only ever played out in her worst nightmares; she'd never thought they would become a reality.

The men who lined Mark Serna's pockets with extra money that his law enforcement career would not have provided had enemies and powerful ones at that. Nora loved him, though and he was a great father to their five-year-old son, Brady.

There was something with evidence and extortion but what it amounted to was an assassin being sent to their home to end their lives.

Not sensing that anything was amiss, Nora went downstairs to the kitchen. The first thing she noticed was the carton of milk spilt on the floor; Mark's arm dangled lifelessly above it. Her eyes moved upward until they reached the bullet hole in her husband's forehead. Biting back a scream, she fled up the stairs.

Brady's little body lay crumpled on the hallway floor, his blood staining the beige carpet a ghastly red. She knelt next to him and took him in her arms, choking back sobs and cradling her baby, running her hands through his dark, recently washed hair.

A figure stood on the opposite end of the hallway. When he raised his silenced pistols, she didn't cry out, didn't try to run; at that moment, she welcomed death.

_Present…_

Nora bit her lip, pushing the memories away.

OoO

"What're ye gonna tell yer ma?"

Elizabeth had been awake, but that question drove away that last pleasantness of mental fogginess.

"Well," she said, fumbling for words in her mind. She had no idea what she was

going to tell her mother. She suspected that her mind had kept itself from asking the question she was just asked.

_Oh, hey, Mom; blew away a guy last night; is it cool if my accomplice comes in for a drink?_

She couldn't _not_ tell her mom; she'd know something was wrong.

Suddenly the path to Pittsburgh seemed to be shortening at an alarming rate. Though she was certain her mother would not disown her and would probably even defend her actions, this was one conversation she did not look forward to having. She sighed.

"The truth, I guess."

OoO

Kostya Litovsa looked in a mirror in the mock E.R. and considered his reflection both inwardly and outwardly.

Though he was in his early forties, he could pass for a much younger man. His wavy hair was the slightest shade darker than platinum and his eyes, a deep aquatic blue, were nothing short of magnetic. He knew women found him attractive, but in his line of work, outstanding physical features were not exactly convenient.

Loyalty to Mother Russia, as was impressed upon him by his father (a military man), had never appealed to him and though it had taken a good while, proving himself as an asset to the Italians had paid off in the end. His skills as a marksman practically allowed him to name his own price, but he never got greedy and was always careful no matter the type of job it was.

Though it had never bothered him, he did not enjoy killing. He just thought of it as trash disposal. (Appropriately ironic, he'd always thought.) He had no qualms about taking out some low life pimp that wanted to out step his place or a dirty politician or cop for whatever reason. He did, however, draw lines and it seemed that he was respected no less for it. He couldn't kill women or children; just couldn't.

The cell phone in his jean pocket began vibrating and he fumbled for it; he had always been much better with triggers than buttons.

"Hello?" he said around an unavoidable yawn.

"Hey," A familiar voice said over the line.

Kostya smiled, knowing that she wouldn't mind the lapse in professionalism.

**A/N:** Okay, now did you really think I'd kill Murph? In all honesty, I really couldn't kill either of them without having a mental breakdown.

I feel the need to explain the appearance of 'Kitty' in Murphy's OBE (Out of Body Experience) in the event that you were wondering about. Kitty Genovese's murder was referenced in the beginning of _The Boondock Saints_ in the opening scene. While some of the facts in the movie were incorrect (probably to illustrate a point) the circumstances surrounding her murder are no less tragic. I won't recount it here, but the story is –if you don't know about it and are interested –available on the internet.

Thank you for reading! Reviews would be appreciated!


	5. Calls

**A/N: Wahoo! New chapter. Thank you to my reviewers; you are so very kind. I apologize for the length of time it's taken me to post again; school really cuts into writing and now that it's over (for now, anyway) I'm working on several stories. **

**This chapter is more for OC development and to introduce the main baddies. Enjoy!**

_Thirty-Three years ago…_

Nora braced herself for the agony of the bullets that would tear through her, but it never came. The assassin's blood sprayed the wall before he fell to the ground with a stunned look on his face. His guns thudded on the floor.

After a few trembling breaths, she turned to another man at the opposite end of the hallway at the top of the stairs. All black clothing, tall; six holsters were fit to the length of his torso.

She sat there, rocking the lifeless body of her child and watching the other killer. Before he turned and walked away, she was certain she saw sadness in his eyes.

She'd seen him only once again after that. A few years later he accompanied a mob soldier who had taken a bullet in the arm to her new 'work' place. Nothing of past events passed their lips by; but worlds of pain and emotion were exchanged when their eyes met.

She should have thanked him for saving her life; she knew, but instead was distracted by an unwarranted seething. The broad, tacit man hadn't made it in time to save her husband, or her son, leaving her alone in the world. She always ended up truly blaming herself though. For years after, she thought she may as well have died too.

_Present…_

She'd interrupted Kostya, who was in the middle of a phone conversation. He put his hand over the speaker and said he'd be back; but she'd waved him off and told him to get some sleep. She'd met Kostya in a similar situation to the brothers', but Kostya's injuries were much less severe.

While treating him, the impression that had been left on her by another assassin more than three decades ago remained: Not all killers were monsters; and she knew from the start that Kostya was not a monster. Though he would disappear from time to time for a job, it just seemed that he had never really left; she was glad of it.

Nora sat there watching the two boys sleep; she didn't know why she thought of them that way as the presence of firearms should have negated any concept of childishness. Neither of them stirred as she wondered about the lives they led and the events that had lead up to her finding them. What had they done? Did their ruthlessness outmatch that of whom she worked for? How human were they? Were they someone's sons? Someone's lovers?

OoO

_"How are things around the house?" _

"Pretty quiet," Kostya lied into the phone's speaker.

_"That's good."_

"How are things up North?"

There was a pause. _"Good."_

He could tell she was lying.

"Do you need anything?" he asked, willing to help her at a moment's notice.

_"Nah, just wanted to say 'hi.'"_ She sounded tired. He hoped she was okay.

"Alright; you pick the strangest times to call, you know?"

_"I really dunno why I called; I thought you'd be out on a run or something."_

"Just getting ready to," he lied.

"_Have fun."_

"I will. Bye, Angel face."

There was a tired laugh over the line.

_"How many times do I have to ask you not to call me that?"_

"Goodbye."

He read 'Call Ended,' on the screen of his Motorola and he stuffed back into his pocket after snapping it shut. That was an odd call even by his standards.

Nora's daughter hadn't been home in months and while she did occasionally call 'just to say hi' the call gave him an odd feeling. He found himself worrying; not an activity he usually engaged in. He didn't enjoy killing; but if anybody hurt that girl he would be satisfied with bringing death on the person who did the hurting. Nora was a strong woman but he wondered if she could endure the pain of the loss of another child.

Nora always told him not to dwell on every negative possibility; but he told her that he was merely being prudent.

_She said she was okay, maybe she is_; he thought and then scolded himself.

_You know that's bullshit; she was lying._

He trudged to his room, deciding to sleep, knowing there was nothing much he could do anyway and that Nora had passed a great amount of strength to her progeny.

_Maybe she's just having a bad day._

OoO

Elizabeth's cell phone read 8:06 a.m. She stuffed it back into her purse and stepped out of the convenience store, carrying a bag stuffed with chips, candy bars and drinks. (She hoped she'd picked out something Pops would eat.) They would probably arrive at her mother's house around one or one thirty.

She stretched as she approached the car where Pops was standing. Her body screamed, though because of the blows her body had been dealt the previous night.

"It's a gorgeous morning," she commented as she realized how infrequently she appreciated the beginning of the day.

Pops stood with his head bowed and then looked up after several seconds. He inhaled the crisp, mid-October air.

"Aye"

"Are you ready?"

He nodded and got into the car.

With the comforting rustle of the plastic bag, Elizabeth situated the food and drinks behind the console.

_Bring on the junk food, _she thought. She'd always been a nervous eater.

After about ten minutes, a Snickers and half a bag of chips, she turned on the radio, curious.

A woman's voice came through the speakers:

"_Late last night the bodies of two men were found shot to death in a South Boston alleyway. Though authorities are not releasing information, the killings bring to mind the brutal executions done by _The Saints_ several years ago…"_

She switched off the radio, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"Ya know, I just feel so justified in having offed that guy, it hadn't occurred to me that we'd be vilified."

"That seems te be de cost o' tings," Pops said distantly.

She nodded in understanding, but Elizabeth suddenly felt sadness and anger. Would it ever be known that the two that they killed were themselves a far worse breed of killer? The kind that tortured and maimed. (This is what she sensed of them.) She knew the penile system was way overcrowded and as a result more and more criminals were being set free. She just didn't understand how punishments were doled out.

Someone could steel a car and do five to ten years and some pervert could molest a little girl and spend _maybe_ six months in prison for it; probably less.

Her foot pressed down on the accelerator harder, a sour expression crossing her face.

"It's just not right." She muttered, tightening her grip on the steering wheel.

"No," he said. "'Tis not."

OoO

Kostya drew the curtains in his bedroom, dousing the light. He stripped to the waist before sitting down on his bed and flicking on the stereo that sat on the nightstand. He'd always needed some noise in the background so that he could sleep, but what he heard didn't help him to drift off.

"_In a Pittsburgh home, no less than sixteen men were executed. Authorities are not releasing the names of the victims and little other information; but it has been rumored that a teenaged girl survived the vicious attack and has been taken into police custody. The home belongs to Giorgio Leonetti. Sources say…"_

Kostya had thrown a shirt on and fastened a few of the buttons, albeit in the wrong slits, and charged downstairs and into the infirmary.

"_Nora!"_ he said, keeping his voice in a stunned, but excited whisper.

She turned around, brow creased.

"What is it?"

"You should watch or listen to the news."

"What happened?"

"Leonetti is most likely _dead_ and fifteen others with him_. That's_ what happened."

When Kostya got nervous, his accent tended to get thicker but the implication of his words was no less clear. Leonetti was big time.

_What was that about a girl surviving?_ Kostya's mind raced, remembering something he'd heard.

Rumor had it that Leonetti was trying to get his hand into smuggling more than just weapons and drugs in and out of the country. This had bothered Kostya but he'd been to both of Leonetti's estates –the one in New York and the one in Pittsburgh which was apparently now a slaughterhouse –and had neither seen nor heard any proof of this. Kostya waited for Nora's reaction.

In a motion that was most likely deliberate, she looked at the sleeping twins and back at Kostya with an expression he could not interpret.

"Now, I wonder who would have done that," she said.

"Will they come here looking for them?" Kostya asked.

"I don't think so, but…" she sighed, "you never know."

Kostya nodded, taking it in.

"What are these guys, anyway?" That did not at all strike him as the mob type.

"I don't know, but they're…something."

OoO

Tomasso Franchetti had heard.

The perhaps too-early glass of bourbon he'd been enjoying shattered against a bedroom wall of his New York penthouse when the news came over his plasma screen TV. The hooker in his bed woke up and wrapped the golden, satin sheets around her chest, cringing at his outburst.

He muttered some curses in Italian, threw a cotton robe on and stormed out the door, shouting for a maid. He hastily punched the buttons on his phone, dialing one of his associate's numbers.

"You've heard?"

"Yes," Alexander Caputo said over the line in a grave tone.

"Get everyone together; we'll meet at _Giselle's _at nine tonight and I wanna know who we've got on the inside." _Giselle's _was one of Franchetti's smaller establishments.

"Very good."

"No, it's not very fucking _good_! Someone's on to us!" He was yelling now and the paunch that had been consistently growing since his fortieth birthday jiggled a little bit.

"I'll see you at nine, Tomasso." Caputo said before hanging up.

Tomasso heard the dial tone and let his breath rush out through his nostrils as he began counting to ten and placing the phone back on its cradle. There were things to be done.

OoO

"You know we have to help them, right?" Nora asked Kostya who was sat with his chin in his palms.

He nodded.

"No matter what," she pressed.

He sighed.

"We don't know what they're about or who might have hired them, Nora."

"Kostya…" she started, not knowing where exactly she was going. "Have you ever seen anyone here react the way Conner did to someone almost dying?"

"No," he said with a shrug, "but they're brothers."

"We work for a man who _killed_ his own brother. These are good men and I think you know that; we can't just throw them to the dogs."

"So what do you suggest we do?" He asked, "Because I can't help but notice a conflict of interest here."

"Let's just make sure they're all right."

Nora knew Kostya was waiting for an 'and then' followed by a plan that would solve their problem but she really didn't know what to do. Chances were they wouldn't want to stay too long anyway.

They lapsed into an uneasy silence for a while and listened to the clock tick. She was afraid; she couldn't deny that. She was afraid for her daughter, for Kostya and even for the unconscious brothers that could very well bring her world crashing down around her. She wasn't about to admitted it, though.

She found Conner's coat and rummaged through the pockets until she found keys. She tossed them to Kostya.

"Can you move their car into the garage and see what you can do about the blood?" It wouldn't hurt do give Kostya something to do to occupy his mind.

"Yeah," he said, accepting the keys to the Buick.

OoO

Elizabeth sighed heavily.

"About an hour," she said, drumming her fingers on the dashboard, waiting for the traffic light to turn green, "maybe more in this traffic."

She wasn't looking forward to arriving at their destination, where she would spill her guts to her mother; the city traffic was like the equivalent of Purgatory. The light turned green and the SAAB ahead of her didn't move.

"Get moving, you stupid douche-bag!" She yelled at the driver whom, she imagined was on a cell phone.

As if spurred on by her words, the car moved. She'd since put on her sunglasses. It was one of those October days when the sun was horrendously bright and hot; but the warmth would be immediately banished by a swift, chilly wind that would make your nose and eyes water.

"Y'er nervous."

"You think so?" She didn't snipe; she said it with a nervous chuckle.

OoO

Conner stirred. He took in the astringent scent, the beeping monitor and everything hit him; Murphy nearly dying, being helped by Nora. He lay flat on his back, blinking his eyes. Turning his head slowly, he saw Murphy in the same position he had been in hours ago. Nora hovered over him.

"Hey," she said with a tired smile. "I was wondering when you'd wake up."

He tried to sit up, but found it difficult.

"Just rest," she suggested. "I think you'll be here for a little while."

He tried to sit up again and succeeded, but felt, through the disorientation, the stitches in his shoulder pull. He winced.

"Or not," Nora said.

Conner looked at the clock on the wall; it read 12:36. Was that afternoon or night? How long had he been asleep? He realized that, down in that room, he hadn't seen daylight in almost an entire day; maybe more. He looked at Murph and then back at Nora questioningly.

"He's fine," she assured him. "How are you feeling?"

He shrugged (and regretted it). "I'm a' right."

"Do you need anything?" The woman was damn persistent in her hospitality, Conner decided.

"No, thank ye," he said, dragging his legs over the side of the cot and setting his feet on the floor. He needed Murphy to be awake and making some joke and being okay; that's what he needed.

"Is there anyone you need to call?" Nora asked.

"No," Conner didn't know how to contact his father and he was unsure of how to feel about that. He and Murph had taken care of each other their entire lives; they didn't need anybody but now that they were together, would their father care that they were injured and that Murphy was nearly killed?

_Snap the fuck out o' it, man,_ he scolded himself. _Ye know Da'd be 'ere in a split second if he knew what happened_.

Maybe it was time for the Saints to invest in cell phones.

OoO

The small bar of Giselle's was illuminated by candles but the occupants didn't really seem to notice. Five men in well-tailored suits sipped one sort of liquor or the other. They regarded each other with brief glances and nods, all knowing that there was a position of power to be filled.

Alexander Caputo sat quietly in a corner, watching others watch him. He knew they were looking to him to start dealings but he would not. He wanted as little as possible to do with this new _problem_. He wanted out, but getting out now would look…well, bad.

He was not surprised when Tomasso Franchetti was the first to speak up. Alexander had known him since Tomasso was a teenager; he had never doubted that the power-hungry younger man would rise to a position of higher standing within the mob and now that more of that clout was within his reach, he would undoubtedly grasp it.

"Gentlemen," Tomasso began. "Thank you for joining me here at such short notice. As you're all aware by now Giorgio Leonetti and others were killed and I don't think I'm alone in the sentiment that something must be done about it."

There were nods of approval around the room and Tomasso smiled ever so slightly, clearly enjoying the pull he had.

"We would be risking far too much by allowing those who perpetrated this crime to go unpunished." More nods. "I'd like to ask for your approval to go to Pennsylvania and tie up any loose ends. I think you, Alexander and Marty, should stay here in New York and see to affairs and that you, Vince and Eddie, should come with me to Pennsylvania."

Vince raised his glass of amber liquid. "I second that motion." He said, with a half-witted grin.

No one saw Alexander roll his eyes. Vincent Biagio was a play boy but his financial connections kept him in good with men who wielded their power with more force. Alexander expected that Tomasso wanted to keep Vince close to ensure that he wouldn't try anything stupid.

Tomasso had selected Edward Rossini to keep him close as well but for an entirely different reason. Edward was shrewd and very capable of assuming power. Alexander had seen them tap dance around each other for as long as he could remember.

Though Alexander had come to loathe Tomasso over the years, he felt an odd sense of pride as the emerging leader delegated orders. Alexander was, after all, Tomasso's godfather (a fact which he never failed to see the cinematic irony in).

Plans were made; drinks were drained. Vince pinched the pretty cocktail waitress's ass when she served them another round of drinks. Her lips smiled but Alexander could see the look of disgust in her eyes.

After the others had left, Alexander and Tomasso remained. Tomasso was barely concealing the excitement he was so obviously feeling. Tomasso allowed himself to slouch in his seat and sigh.

"That went well, I think." Alexander stated.

"Yeah," Tomasso said, nodding his head giddily, to the point his dark hair became disheveled. "Me too."

Moments in silence passed before Alexander spoke up again. "Is there anyone you want to hire?" he asked.

Tomasso sobered up considerably.

"Kostya should be close to where you're going, maybe he could…" Alexander's suggestion was cut short.

"No," Tomasso said as he stared into his glass as though it were a crystal ball that would grant him unparalleled wisdom. "Get me The Lady."

OoO

_The West Coast…_

No one would have ever guessed that the name her parents had given her was Helen. Though stunningly gorgeous, she looked little or nothing like the classic Greek beauty was described to be. Her hair was as black as a crow's feather and her eyes, which few felt comfortable looking into for more than a split second, were a shade of blue so pale and cold that they looked like tropical waters that had been frozen over.

Wearing a silver outfit that revealed more than a bikini, the woman called The Grey Lady was grinding her body against the man she'd been hired to kill. She moved gracefully, balanced on her black pumps and was bothered little by the platinum blond wig she wore; her contacts made her eyes a warm shade of brown.

She could not have asked for a better environment in which to carry out her job. The strobe lights of _Chez Noir_ made everybody's movements appear jilted and more importantly, distorted. No one would have taken notice to her unwinding the thin wire from around her torso and wrapping it around her mark's throat as she swayed her breasts a fraction of an inch from his face; no one would have realized that his air supply was being cut off or that when he slumped to the floor, he was dead. Certainly, nobody would have noticed her slink into the bathroom to discard the ruse of an exotic dancer and then slip out a back door in jeans and knee-length leather jacket.

The syndicate that had hired her wanted it to be a public death and that was fine; she'd done jobs that were riskier and far bloodier than the one she just pulled off. A quarter of a mile away, she unlocked and got into her black BMW that she had parked by a row apartment buildings; and shut the door and sat for a few minutes. She'd decided that she would indulge herself in a glass of whine after a hot shower, when she saw something move about a hundred feet ahead of her. Switching her attention to the present, she saw a man get out of his car and move to the back seat where he pulled out a bundle; a bundle with a distinctly child-like shape. The man was wary as he slunk into one of the houses.

Fastening a knife sheath around each of her thighs, she followed.

She didn't know this man; but she knew that the wounds inflicted by those like him were not healable. He would pay and pay dearly.

_Later…_

The Grey Lady sat curled in her leather recliner with a glass of Lambrusco combing over the details of her latest two kills in her sharp, but broken mind; _very clean on both accounts_, she thought as she took a sip of wine. She'd seen to it that the child (who was unconscious and would not have seen her) would be recovered safely. If she'd needed any proof of what the man was, the photos of naked children that lined his walls would have been more than sufficient. She thought of killing those perverts as charity work.

She'd dispatched him in a way that would draw attention to his perversion and that made her feel some small twinge of contentment. She didn't doubt that the scene would cause responding authorities to loose their meals.

On the end table beside the recliner, her cell phone rang.

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed the new chapter. I'm working on the new one so let me know what you think; feedback seems to spur my imagination…hint, hint. Oh, and on a somewhat related note (I just feel the need to tell you how excited I am!): I think I'm getting Charlie Bronson's **_**Death Wish**_** movies for Christmas!!! **

**And on that note, I hope you all have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!**


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